


falling / humanity (5 + 1)

by oflosechesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bobby's House, Canon Universe, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., Episode: s05e13 The Song Remains the Same, M/M, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, dean winchester's classic repression, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oflosechesters/pseuds/oflosechesters
Summary: He may have left a mark on Dean’s soul — the shape of a hand burned into the freckled skin of a strong shoulder, scarring that would lessen but never truly fade — but ineffable and indelibly, the once dove white wings spread to cast shadow on the wall of a dilapidated barn would forever be burned away; dark as night, a lack of color, as black as a raven’s wings.His brothers and sisters still looked, of course, but Castiel only read pity in their eyes.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	falling / humanity (5 + 1)

**Author's Note:**

> a friend of mine asked me to write a drabble about castiel + falling/humanity for a 5+1 prompt. so here we are!

**001.**

His wings were white once. Brilliant in their gold–tipped hue, they would flutter; dove white and glossy, Castiel was not _proud_ , per se, but he can admit to quietly enjoying the way envy would be writ in the eyes of his brothers and sisters when he soared above and beyond them. They curled around him like dawn’s outstretched fingers, warmth all encompassing. Tucked neatly at his back, celestial intent folded and collapsed. Spread wide in all their truth, they spanned eons; and though they were not fashioned as archangels, in tiers of two or three, he was content with his lot.

When Castiel’s garrison was chosen to lay siege to hell in order to raise the righteous man, he knew he would be swiftest of all his company. In all his millennia as a soldier, however, Castiel had never quite known the deepest depths of hellfire. Swift as he was, he could not escape the oppressive heat that pressed in from all sides, the way the air smelt of acrid smoke, nor the way it seemed to singe the golden tips of his wings with soot: with burning, ash, and decay. When he finally laid a hand upon Dean Winchester’s soul, grace alight once in contact, his words echoed and reverberated throughout all of his father’s creation:

_Dean Winchester is saved._

He may have left a mark on Dean’s soul — the shape of a hand burned into the freckled skin of a strong shoulder, scarring that would lessen but never truly fade — but ineffable and indelibly, the once dove white wings spread to cast shadow on the wall of a dilapidated barn would forever be burned away; dark as night, a lack of color, as black as a raven’s wings.

His brothers and sisters still looked, of course, but Castiel only read pity in their eyes.

— 

**002.**

“Angels are dying, boy.”

“Everybody’s dyin’ these days.”

Frozen in waiting, Dean’s voice travels across the room to Castiel’s ears and falls into the vicinity of facetious. His obstinance is something Castiel has become familiar with and, quietly, has even come to hold a sort of warmth for; a feeling not quite yet like fondness, or at least, that is what he chooses to believe. Not yet, not _quite_ yet. “And hey, I get it. You’re all–powerful, you can make me do whatever you want.” Regrettably, there was no room for such feeling in the face of Dean’s rising ire; a wrath that drew blue eyes in curious gaze once, but now only drew them in the way it might draw breath from his chest were he in need of oxygen to breathe. Dean rounds on him, and Castiel does not overlook the underlying plea. “But you can’t make me do _this._ ”

Righteous man, indeed; anger rolling in waves, Castiel stems the tide, a tether between them pulling his being forward, strides long, steps directed into the floor with purpose. He agrees, “This is too much to ask — _I know._ ” He knows, has pressed two fingertips lightly to a stubborn brow in disturbed slumber, plagued by dreams and memory both. He thinks of hellfire and rot, sweltering; thinks of black smoke thick enough to choke on. The throat of his vessel constricts at the memory, but Castiel forgets if it is Dean’s or his own. His steps fall short. “But we _have_ to ask it.” He can only hope that Dean can see the strength of his own plea as their eyes meet; their locked gaze lingering, emphasis unblinking, until green eyes fall away.

“I wanna talk to Cas alone,” Dean says. It is followed by a beat, and the slide of Uriel’s eyes to Castiel’s countenance. It is not the first time Dean Winchester has omitted the _–iel_ from his name, but the weight of such things do not fall on deaf ears, and when Uriel speaks, it is Castiel who looks away. “I think I'll go seek... _revelation._ We might have some further orders.”

“Well, get some donuts while you’re out.”

The laughter that fills the warehouse is throaty and rich; deep as riverbeds, yet light as it bubbles from the angel’s mouth and up to the rafters. It tapers off on a sigh. “Oh, this one just won’t quit, will he? I think I'm starting to like you, boy.” With that, Uriel is disappeared from them, with the flutter of wings. As Dean turns, his brows nearly shoot into his hairline. “You guys don’t walk enough, you’re gonna get flabby,” he warns, and Castiel’s eyes narrow minutely, crease deepening between furrowed brows. “Y’know, I'm startin’ to think Chuckles has a better sense of humor than you do.”

“Uriel’s the funniest angel in the garrison — ask anyone.” He doesn’t see the relevance, lips turned downward in the hint of a frown, muddled with confusion as he is. Dean, on his part, only blinks before decidedly pressing on, and pressing _in;_ the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the space surrounding, the space between, the scuff of boots on cement flooring. “What’s goin’ on, Cas?” And there it is again, somehow louder now that they’re alone, now he’s been warned. _Cas._ His posture remains rigid, unmoving as marble. He stares and he stares and he stares. Until he doesn’t; blue eyes falling from green gaze, the intensity of it shaming him — or, perhaps, the knot beginning to coil in his vessel’s stomach. “Since when does _Uriel_ put a leash on _you?”_

There is a moment between words and breath, sharp inhalation a momentary respite from this stirring in his chest. It lasts for a fraction of a second. “My superiors have begun to question my sympathies.” The truth laid bare, his face is carefully blank; voice akin to the low rumble of a storm before the lightning strike. His chest is still, unmoving, fingers flexing at his sides.

“Your _sympathies?”_

“I was getting too close to the humans in my charge.” Spoken succinctly, dark lashes falling over eyes that sweep stone floors in an effort to hide all true intent. _Humans_. The plural was a generalization that spoke so little to the truth. Blue irises flickering back up to instead sweep the smattering of freckles of the bridge of a nose that match those of a scarred shoulder, Castiel decides, not for the first time, that Dean deserves the truth. “You.” He watches carefully as Dean’s own eyes fall away; and the knowledge that neither he nor Dean are quite able to look at each other presses in, a needle at his side. He feels the overwhelming, inexplicable urge to turn away. “They feel I’ve begun to express emotions — doorways to doubt.” And so he does; chin tilting ever so slightly, restless hands slip into the borrowed pockets of an overcoat. If he does not _look,_ he tells himself, he cannot be moved to— _feel._ “This can impair my judgment.”

Dean, however, is as defiant as he’s ever been. Castiel sometimes wonders if all humans exhibit such behavior, and if Dean is like a microcosm of humanity writ small, or if obstinance was a word created specifically for the man that refuses to allow Castiel to avoid his line of sight; stepping forward and further into Castiel’s space, before crossing and closing in on the door that separates him from all he fears. “Well, tell Uriel — _whoever_ — you do not want me doin’ this. Trust me,” tone hushed, a husky quality that hides a growing tremor just beneath the surface. The words themselves pick at Castiel’s mind and mode of thought, plucking and tugging at the strings that stitch him together.

“Want it?” In all the time they’ve spent together, from the moment he’d pulled Dean’s tattered soul from ruin, trembling — pieced back together by his own hands, the work of angels, of his father and all his glory, _still_ _brilliant and shining_ — never had he thought _this_ would be something he would ever ask of him. He stares at illegible graffiti on the distant wall, dip of his brow furrowing further still. “No.” But there is such a thing as duty, a higher call, _strings._ “But I’ve been told we need it.”

But the tremors under the surface rise and rise until Dean’s voice is trembling breath, and the tremors create fissures that crack Castiel’s placid veneer. “You ask me to open that door and walk through it, _you will not like what walks back out._ ” The sound of thread snapping.

“For what it’s worth—” _Feeling, sentiment_. _Doubt._ “I would give anything not to have you do this.”

— 

**003.**

The room is white, laden with ornate filigree of gold and marble. Castiel still feels it is a prison cell. He knows they both know it, and the way Dean crosses to meet him in the stifling space of this white, white room that is filled to the corners with Dean’s ambient, seething rage has Castiel’s head bowing, if only for a moment. _We’ve been through much together, you and I,_ he says,words spoken softly in gentle cadence, his apology tastes like iron on his tongue. When Castiel fully meets his gaze, he sees that the fire behind Dean’s eyes only burns brighter at the sentiment. He is not surprised when he is met with a closed fist, and so he does not falter; only turns his face with the brute force of Dean’s swing as to ensure that Dean does not break his hand.

“It’s armageddon, Cas. You need a bigger word than _sorry._ ”

“Try to understand, this is long foretold, this is your—”

“ _Destiny?_ Don’t gimme that _holy_ crap.” Castiel’s eyes following the minute shake of Dean’s head like a hawk, soak in the way his lips tremble as his breath quakes. There is a plea in his eyes, but Castiel cannot answer prayers left unspoken. “ _Destiny, god’s plan_ — it’s all a bunch of _lies,_ you poor, stupid son of a bitch.” His own lips press into a thin line, allowing Dean his righteous fury. “It’s just a way for your bosses to keep me and keep _you_ in line.” But there is a creeping feeling that stirs and rises from his chest that he finds he cannot shake; head tilted as he considers Dean’s words. There is a pause for breath in which he is certain green eyes implore him to speak. He is silent.

“Y’know what’s real?” His eyes narrow in on the sweep of a tongue. Dean presses ever onward. “People. _Families._ That’s real— and you’re gonna watch ‘em all burn?” Lips twisted in his dismay: incredulous, disbelieving. It is an accusation in and of itself, and Castiel’s own ire flares at the notion, though the feeling in his chest draws tighter. Despite this, he stalks forward, snapping jaws and sharp teeth in all his defiance. “ _What_ is so worth saving? I see _nothing_ but _pain_ here.” Eyes staring, always staring, beyond the surface and into the soul;he wants to reach in through Dean’s slack–jawed mouth and pull it out with greedy claws and the gnarled fingers of an old crone. His wrath simmers and settles into a seethe. “I see inside _you._ I see your guilt, your anger, confusion.” But it tapers, and fades away. “In paradise all is forgiven. You’ll be at peace. Even with _Sam._ ” In fading, he falls, turning his face, unable to hold Dean’s gaze.

Not for the first time, Dean doesn’t allow it, drawing his attention by ducking his head, and forcing Castiel to face the present reality. The stirring in his chest tugs. Perhaps it is the tether, then, that binds them. “You can take your peace, and shove it up your lily–white ass. ‘Cause I’ll take the pain, and the guilt— I’ll even take Sam as is. It’s a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise,” he sneers, adamant. The quizzical narrowing of Castiel’s gaze, the crease between his brow, only seems to stoke the flames. He turns away. “This is _simple,_ Cas. No more crap about bein’ a _good soldier._ There is a _right_ and a _wrong_ here, and you know it." He turns away, but he is caught by the tight grip of calloused hands. _“Look at me!”_ Hands that pull and pry him apart under a microscope in a way he has never yet known; Castiel allows Dean to rip every thread at every seam, allows him to redirect his attention, his body back toward him. “You _know_ it!”

There are words at the tip of his tongue that he cannot say, jaw tight with the force of trapping them in his throat. “Now, you were gonna help me once, weren’t you?” But he feels fingers even now, mercilessly picking at his stitching to pry apart his sewn lips. “You were gonna warn me about all this before they dragged you back to bible camp.” Perhaps, he thinks, if he does not look at the sun for too long, he will evade the shortcomings of Icarus. “Help me. Now. _Please._ ” The tether pulls ever tighter. He begins to question whether or not it is a noose.

The shake of his head is near imperceptible. “What would you have me do?”

“Get me to _Sam!_ We can stop this before it’s too late.”

“I do that, we will all be hunted.” He chances a glance to impress upon his point. “We’ll _all_ be killed.” And paradise promises _peace,_ he knows. Everything else was a means to an end. “If there is anything worth dyin’ for— _this is it,_ ” Dean says, and Castiel reads only reckless conviction that causes the stricture of his chest to fissure and crack. He shakes his head, eyes falling away. 

The quiet fury rolls off of Dean in waves, even as he turns his back. Castiel stands still, eyes fixated on the golden filigree of a renaissance painting that lacks all luster: a pale imitation for the vibrancy of being. “You spineless, _soulless,_ son of a bitch.” _Heartless_ , Castiel recalls, _you called me heartless, once_. “What do you care about dyin’? You’re already _dead._ ” But the words come like a slap to the face now in a way they hadn’t then, in a way not even Dean’s own fist could affect him. It takes the breath from his lungs. “We’re _done._ ”

A bottom lip quivers, and is swallowed by a quiet plea of his own, jaw ticking at the corner. He has never truly known loss in any way that felt so human. “Dean—”

“We’re _done._ ”

He doesn’t witness the way Dean looks back, nor the way a quiet hurt settles in the air around him, once he’s fled from sight. He does, however, read a bond of trust that had not yet been broken when he draws Dean’s own knife from its place, tucked close at his side; feels a soul’s shiver in quiet concern as he draws the dagger’s sharpened edge over his own skin. The blood he spills is dark and viscous, a metallic tinge permeating the air in his lungs. This is perhaps the first time he has spilled his own blood for Dean Winchester, but it will not be the last.

— 

**004.**

"Hello, brother." 

Castiel is surrounded by flame. Confusion flickers over an irritated countenance as holy fire licks at his shoes, casting the empty room in stark shadow. The voice, unbidden, seemingly has no origin as blue eyes sweep the room. That is, until his ears catch the wet footfalls of a figure slinking out of the shadows and into the flame’s light. Castiel, though weaker than he once may have been in being cut off from the host, doesn’t fail to recognize the face beneath the mask. He is, undoubtedly, in danger. Or so he presumes. "Lucifer."

His brother circles him as if he is prey for slaughter. But his walk is meandering, and his voice is kind: conversational. “So, I take it you’re here with the Winchesters.”

Castiel hesitates, weight shifting from one foot to the next, and then he lies. “I came alone.”

Lucifer stops, humming his approval. Castiel’s eyes are fixated on his countenance. He is, Castiel denotes, being surprisingly civil. “Loyalty. such a nice quality to see this day in age.” But his eyes do not leave him, nor does he even think to blink. He cannot blink. “Castiel, right?” He nods, slowly, eyes near black in the firelight, flitting to the wag of a curious finger as the archangel resumes his path around the circling flame. “Castiel, I'm told you came here in an automobile.”

“... Yes.”

“What was that like?” His brother’s scrunched nose indicates a genuine curiosity, tempered by a mild distaste for the notion in and of itself. Castiel treats his curiosity openly, understanding it as much as he understood his own, not but a year ago, though he’s never held the same disdain for humanity and its many facets, as his siblings have. He casts a glance around the room; clocking entrances, exits, and anything in between. “Uhm— Slow... Confining.” The look Lucifer levels him with is not one he knows how to handle. Curiosity shifted from the concept of curling one's wings close enough to the point of an aching discomfort, from allowing a man made machine to ferry him through; his gaze now settled and lingered as if _Castiel_ was the true oddity. A sea–monkey encased behind glass, up for display. “What a _peculiar_ thing you are.” There is weight to his words, a depth that begs to be uprooted, that Castiel cannot define and would prefer not to read into, despite the way they will weigh on his mind for some time to come — and so he changes the subject.

“What’s wrong with your vessel?” he asks.

“Yes, uhm. Nick is wearing a bit thin, I'm afraid.” There is marred skin, red and angry where Lucifer’s vessel is splitting apart that attest to this. Castiel wonders, with a churning of his gut, what cruel manner of manipulation his vessel underwent to end up here. But the idle machinations of his mind are brief, as the next words from his brother’s mouth pull Castiel’s wrath as the moon pulls the tide: a storm ever rolling under the surface. “He can’t contain me forever, so.”

 _“You—”_ His natural inclination is to stalk forward, quiet fury rising under momentarily lost control, but his steps are cut short by the sweltering heat of holy oil crackling. He is stopped by flame, but it does nothing to douse the way his lungs burn with heaving breath; the way the very heart of him flares and simmers, tongue singed with a searing he’s rarely known. Lucifer sizes him up. _“You_ are not taking Sam Winchester.” It is a promise, yes, but it is no less a threat. _“I won’t let you.”_

 _“Castiel.”_ The tone is that of a brother calling the younger’s bluff, just on the infuriating edge of _nearly_ patronizing. As he moves, Castiel begins to liken his circling more to that of a vulture than a panther. His eyes don’t leave him, all the same. “I don't understand why you’re fighting _me,_ of all the angels.”

“You _really_ have to ask?”

“I rebelled, I was cast out. _You_ rebelled, _you_ were cast out. Almost all of heaven wants to see me _dead_ and if they succeed, guess what? You’re their new public enemy number one.” He seeks to cast doubt, dispersion of reason, though his warning is rational. It plays at Castiel’s mind, blue eyes falling and searching the fire as if scrying for answers that would not yield. “We’re on the same side, like it or not. So... why not just serve your own best interests? Which, in this case, just happen to be mine.” The intent is lost, gaze snapping up with surety. The choice is far more simple. Castiel has chosen humanity, _and so they are not on the same side._

“I’ll die first,” he says, a quiet conviction in his words. The look they share is long; a silent conversation between kin that stand on opposite sides of a chasm that only grows in its divide. There is an unspoken respect thread between them, though blue gaze is met primarily with a sense of regret. He cannot fault this. He has lost too many brothers and sisters since the first seal was broken. Castiel knows he will not be the last, and thinks of his blood painted over the curled fist of his fallen brother’s hand; of the strain of Uriel’s voice as he pleaded for Castiel’s understanding. It is never easy. “I suppose you will.” 

He is left alone with the flame.

— 

**005.**

He feels he’s becoming a fragile thing.

When he lands in 1978 _,_ it feels more like crashing; his body crumpling and falling against the sturdy weight of a vehicle a few yards away from the Winchesters, consciousness like grasping at straws. The tang of iron on his tongue is becoming increasingly familiar, it seems, and the cry of his name comes to him as if in a haze, made to sound distant as if he were underwater. Hands find him beneath the surface, and try to buoy him above the horizon line.

_Hey, hey, hey— Take it easy, take it easy. Are you alright?_

Blood drips steadily from his nose, pushed by heavy, panted breath to paint his upper lip. He studies the cracks in the sidewalk. “Fine,” voice like rakes over hot coals, fine gravel; gaze drifting steadily upward, there is a moment when his vision swims before it refocuses, _too sharp, terrible._ “I'm much better than I expected.” Which is not a lie, but it is not a comfort; or, at least, he gathers as much from the way Sam’s expression pinches, the way Dean’s lips press into a thin line. He’ll never know how to tell them that self–sacrifice will always simply be a means to an end in his mind. The brothers attempt to raise him to his feet, and the blood rushing to his head pours from his mouth. He feels Dean’s grip on his wrist tighten to what would be near painful for another human, feels the grinding of cartilage and bone, and then nothing.

When he wakes three days later, he is weak, but not so weak that he cannot sense the shift in the air as the breeze from the cracked window dances along his peaked skin. The brothers no longer occupy the same space as him in linear time. That means, then, that they are either _dead,_ or they have somehow returned to 2009. Castiel, still lying on his back and staring up at the popcorn ceiling, sends a silent prayer to a silent father that it is the latter. But he knows he will not be satisfied, that this creeping anxiety that crawls under his skin will not leave him until he is certain; and so he drags his waterlogged body upright, fingertips coming to lightly touch his upper lip. Blue eyes stare, unblinking, as his touch withdraws, stained red. Despite this, he is conscious, and that is enough. It has to be enough.

When he arrives in 2009, he is woozy, and staggering on his feet. He attempts to call out to Sam’s turned back, but all that escapes his lips is a sigh. _“Castiel—”_ The name from Sam Winchester’s mouth has never sounded the same as what follows: hands steadying him, arms wrapped around his in order to lift his weight, _“Cas—”_ He is ferried by both. “You son of a bitch, you made it.”

He stares once more, gaze caught by fingertips tinged with the wrought iron that brought him here. “I did,” he says, looking between the brothers. He feels the sharp press of Dean’s thumb just above his wrist. “I'm very surprised.” His attention lingers on hazel eyes, and the worried crease of Sam’s brow draws the faintest of smiles from Castiel’s lips, as if to provide the barest hint of relief. But his knees wobble and waver, and suddenly he is sinking like a stone.

— 

**\+ 001.**

“Alright, plucky. Let’s get a move on.” The words are punctuated by footfalls descending, the gentle _thud_ of socked feet echoed by the groan of old, creaking stairs. Bobby’s house has seen many years, and the croak of its bones built up from its foundation is proof of that. Castiel remains where he had been ever since they’d finished dinner: curled tightly in the corner of the living room couch, blue light of midnight casting highlights in black hair. He peeks an eye open, just as Dean lands at the bottom of the steps. “Move where?”

“Upstairs. To bed.” Dean’s intent is punctuated by the way his hands come to wrap around Castiel’s ankles and tug, open palm smacking the side of his clothed calf after he does so. Castiel’s own feet land on the rug with a dull _thud._ “You’re never gonna catch a wink down here. It’s freezing." Cold is a sensation that is entirely new to him — in more than a vague sense in which he distantly recognized the temperature of a room, but did not feel the way chill could seep into his bones, and make him shudder. As he gathers himself to rise to his feet, the stiffness in his joints as he rolls his shoulders is, he supposes, an indication of the veracity of Dean’s claims. Perhaps that is one of the reasons he could not doze off, despite his apparent exhaustion. Despite this, warmth blossoms from the heat of the palm of Dean’s hand at his lower back as he is guided to the foot of the stairs.

Neither of them acknowledge the presence of a raven’s feather, swept underfoot.

The mattress is an old one, worn and weary; something they’d picked up from an estate sale one state over when Bobby had had enough of Dean’s complaints of having a crick in his neck from sleeping on the living room floor. The sheets were floral and threadbare to the touch, soft as he allowed his fingertips to sweep the corner. Castiel was so heavily focused on identifying the printed foliage and fauna that he failed to notice Dean stripping down. His attention was only drawn when he felt familiar hands loosen and remove his tie. “You’re never gonna be able to sleep with a damn noose around your neck either,” Dean says by simple way of explanation as his hands then move, hooking two thumbs in the collar of Castiel’s coat and jacket, pushing both from his shoulders. Castiel’s brow furrows further. “You and Sam have slept in your jeans on numerous occasions.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Just _is,_ Cas. C’mon, take your shoes off.” And so he does, stripped of his suit and tie as he is, collar unbuttoned, he slips from his shoes, but approaches the mattress with caution. Dean, on his part, has already climbed under the covers and curled up like dead weight. “No slacks,” the words come quiet, muffled by the quilt that Dean has hiked up over his shoulders. Zippers are arduous things, but Castiel is triumphant in the end, and slips under the covers on the opposite side of the bed with little more than the rustle of sheets. Blue eyes sweeping Dean’s countenance, he curls to mirror Dean’s posture, and breathing;the cadence of which is slow, even and deep. He tries to match it note for note, and finds his own body’s tension seeping out from his seams, pouring into the mattress beneath. Dean once told him to try counting sheep when consciousness — or a dislike of _unconsciousness_ — plagued him. Instead he counts freckles, and connects constellations across the bridge of Dean’s nose.

He blinks his surprise when a green eye peeks open, creases at the corners where he squints, peering into the darkness of the room. “Cas,” the name comes out as a tired sigh. “You can’t just _watch_ me all night. It’s— You just _can’t._ ”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be _sorry._ ”

“I cannot sleep.”

“Alright, well, let’s just—” Dean shifts, rocks up into his elbow so he can bunch and beat the pillow beneath his head into what is presumably a more comfortable shape before he drops back down. “Let’s just try talking, or something.” The words are like a balm to his strained mind, the obvious care a welcomed reminder. He, however, finds he doesn’t have much to say; and so he simply smiles, close–lipped and small, to convey his appreciation. Dean Winchester is many things, Castiel knows, but he is not always one to _talk._

The silence that stretches between them is comfortable, despite the way that neither of their gazes fall away; locked in tandem, earth and sky meeting upon the horizon in which dawn lingers and casts its light like the way Dean’s fingers flex and stretch in the space between their curled bodies. Castiel mirrors this as well, but their hands do not touch. “Dean?” spoken softly, unwilling to disturb the air more than necessary. Dean seems to latch onto the sentiment, and only hums in response. The lashes of his eyelids seem to be growing heavy. “You once vowed to not let me die as a virgin.” This, however, seems to awaken him, and Castiel watches as his muscles grow taut with tension. 

There is a beat before a breath, “It’s a bit late for the strip club, Cas.”

Tomorrow they hunt the Devil, and stand little chance of success. His body, he feels, has grown so brittle. “I suppose.”

There is a moment when he feels Dean’s fingertips travel to curve around the side of his neck, thumb gently stroking the dark wisps that curl around Castiel’s ear. Seemingly unsatisfied, fingers seek and search and curl into raven hair, thick like raven feathers. Castiel is still, chest barely rising, afraid to fall and disturb the peace found between them, as if the slightest disbursement of air might cause the touch to fall away. Inevitably, it does, but he feels the gentle scratch of nails on his scalp before it happens.

He is surprised, then, when the hand that falls only falls so that Dean may sling an arm over Castiel’s side, curling to draw his body closer, eclipsing the space between them. He supposes there is no room for regrets on this small, borrowed bed. “Goodnight, Cas,” he says. 

“Goodnight, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> there are some things mentioned in this that i'm actually currently exploring in another wip, so if you liked this, do keep an eye out!
> 
> as always kudos & comments are mighty appreciated! 💜


End file.
